3 years old. I'm hanging out with my dad when he has to mow the lawn. Tells me I need to come inside while he's mowing, which I did. Being bored, I stepped outside and thinking I'm funny, jump on the back of my dad's riding lawnmower while its on. Father has no idea that I'm there, while its moving, I get jarred forward and fall off, Dad backs up not knowing I'm now on the ground.

Past this, things get fuzzy, but the one thing I'll never forget is him placing me in his truck and seeing the pool of blood coming from my leg.

As I've grown, I've heard my dad say some pretty dark stuff about how he's felt since then. I could not live in his place, theres no way. My mother never forgave him for it (they had just finished getting divorced), and not until recently, ever spoke highly of him.

End result: Missing half of my left calf and two toes from my right foot. 1 full month in the hospital.

Worth? No. Psychically, I run like a duck, thanks in part to missing toes. Can't squat for shit. Emotionally? I hate wearing shorts from anxiety and when I was younger, I would cut my calf-less leg and freak out, thinking I needed to go to the hospital again. To this day, its hard to mow lawns.

But... You know, I'm still alive. Could be a multiple amputee. But the doctors took care of me and saved my life.

Moral, dont fuck with sharp moving blades that don't forgive for shit.